


Swearing-in

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Dandolo/Melvin (hinted at), Gen, Post-Canon, Rituals, they deserve to be happy, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Melvin tries to prepare for one of the most important moments of his life: becoming part of something where he belongs.
Relationships: Dandolo | Merchant Prince/Melvin Mancer
Kudos: 2
Collections: Hello Earth? This Is Mars...





	Swearing-in

Melvin tries to read the speech one last time, start to finish, but it’s difficult. Partially it’s because the two sheets (cut out of his sketchbook) are so densely covered with writing that is crossed out, written over, around, above, below, sideways, between the lines, with arrows pointing here and there, numbers showing the order of words and sentences and thoughts — it is difficult to understand which version of the speech is the final one. The margins, the corners, the lines between, the space right over the text are covered in fleeting sketches: a wind fan, an ostrich tail, a tile from one of the gates. The tattoo on Dandolo’s chin. The sheets are filled in black and crimson ink, in graphite and charcoal, a couple of fingerprints here and there, and smudged lines.

He catches himself reading the same sentence four times without understanding, starts again but gets lost in the labyrinth of arrows.

Melvin sighs. “I’ve brought this upon myself.”

“You don’t have to do it like this.”

He folds the sheets quickly, although, if he can barely read them himself, he doubts Dandolo would be able to decipher them.

“I don’t want to call it off,” he murmurs, glancing at the mirror in front of himself. Not at _himself_ , but at Dandolo.

“Maybe not call it off,” Dandolo says, stopping right behind him, green eyes meeting his in the reflection. The familiar scent of oranges surrounds Melvin like a comforting embrace. “But scale it down. Like it is usually done.”

“No. I want… I _need_ to do it like this.” He knows that Dandolo’s suggestions are born not out of misunderstanding but out of care.

Melvin looks at himself, checking whether everything’s fine. The blue tunic sits immaculate over his bodyglove, the sleeves covering the wiring right down to his wrists and the single technomantic glove on his left hand. The short pants cover the lower part, and although Melvin does have sandals made specifically to be used with the wiring, he’s decided on the more familiar boots.

He concludes that he doesn’t look bad. He doesn’t _feel_ bad — it’s just there is sweat sliding down his spine, because… Because of the heat. And maybe he’s a little nervous. A good kind of nervous.

He swallows.

Dandolo’s hands squeeze his shoulders, anchoring him, and Melvin realizes he’s shaking.

“It will be fine. Once you become a sworn merchant, you become Noctis. There is no waiting period while we look at you and decide whether we want you. You are a Noctian when you are sworn in, having all the rights of any other Noctian, and subject to all the laws.”

He knows. He knows, he’s been studying everything, all of this, all of Noctis, for so long, because he has to make it right. For himself, most of all.

He looks into the green eyes again. “Can I still live in the Palace?”

“Anyone can live in the Palace.” Dandolo smiles. “But yes. _You_ can live in the Palace.”

He looks at himself again. “All right. All right. I’m ready.”

When he walks out of the golden gates of the Palace, his stomach drops into his boots. He is rooted to the spot: the whole Noctis is here. The stairs are packed, though with a corridor made, oh Shadow, just for him down to the second landing. And on the ground, and on the gallery, on the second balcony to the right, on the walkway to the left — people, people, people.

Melvin’s whole face is numb. How can he even—

“I’m here,” Dandolo murmurs, a hand on his back and the scent of oranges surrounding him again. “You’ve got this.”

He swallows, life rushing through his body.

Noctis is brilliant and beautiful and waiting for him.

He walks down the stairs, and his legs become less and less like old rusty metal.

He stops on the second landing, looks around. There are familiar faces: pilots he knows by name, riders, guards. The tattoo masters, Equanimity smoking as usual. She smiles encouragingly and nods to him.

And he feels Dandolo. Behind him, away by a few steps. Dandolo’s reassurance tethers him.

He takes the sheets out of his sleeve, looks through them. Then folds them back and looks around and down the stairs.

“I had a speech written right here,” he starts, and it’s something of a magic of the Palace, of the canyons, that his voice carries without him straining it.

It is, too, in Noctis listening to him.

“Though actually there is enough text for half a dozen speeches. It doesn’t matter.” He smiles. He’s been through speeches for soldiers under his command — but there, he was rousing people to death and yet remained above them, beside, beyond.

Here? It is different.

“I’m not even sure what I wanted to say. Something stupid, probably, big words unfitting for the occasion. I know,” he makes a few steps forward, looking at the faces inclined towards him, “how much value you place into words and into sincerity. So I will speak from my heart. You have given my family shelter when we couldn’t expect it from anyone, when we lost everything — when we _thought_ we lost everything, when everything we had were each other. And it was enough, but…” He waves, grasping for words. “You gave us so much more. Trust and patience and feeling like we weren’t completely powerless. The taste of being, finally,” he clenches his gloved fist, “in control of our destiny, even if the choices we had at the time were staying here or leaving into the plains. It was more choices than many of my kindred ever had. I…”

He takes a shuddering breath, choked by too many emotions, and closes his eyes briefly. Warmth shines upon him.

“There are not enough words to describe,” he continues, opening his eyes, “what I’ve found here. And I don’t want to waste anyone’s time by searching for words, though I know you will be patient with me, as you’ve ever been up to this moment.” He licks his lips, and tilts his chin up: he is not a supplicant, but an equal among equals. “I pledge my allegiance to the people of Noctis, kindred to the first nomads who had no place to call home until they found their home here, in this place and in each other. I am yours, Noctis. If you have me.”

“Noctis has you,” the city replies in an echoing choir.

He covers his face with his hands, smiling into his palms.

Finally. Finally, he is home.


End file.
